Save us first, tend to the hideous fleshbags you seem incapable of leaving later, Koschei hissed in the darkness. Dujek groaned, the last time he'd used the spell it'd nearly drove half the party down a hole from the stench alone, but hopefully it'd drive the orcs away too. Chanting he reached into his robes for pieces of the ghuls they'd fought not too long ago.

OOC: Ghoul Stench, fort save for 16 (or 4?) don't know if 2nd ed rolled under or over for saves. Failure results in being sickened profoundly by the stench of cannibalistic zombies...

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For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

Vee took up an easy crouching position, a boulder serving as cover if the orcs had bows or spears to throw. He sighted down the length of the crossbow and muttered a soft prayer for straight shots and good hits, he pulled the trigger, releasing the first shot of the engagement. He worked the lever action, dropping another bolt in quick, the movements as familiar to him as lifting a mug ofale or bouncing a wench on his knee, he had done all three with frightening regularity, though at the moment he wished for more ale and blonde headed wenches and fewer orcs and crossbows.

"I dont know what you are waiting for Czolba, time to get you your necklace of orc ears." Vee said working the crossbow with the ruthless efficiency of a dwarven smith.

(OOC - TORA TORA TORA! open fire with the crossbow, shoot the closest ones first, and no called shots, or anything fancy. )

In the starlight, the orcish horde rushing toward the party could be seen only as shadows, a deeper blackness in the night's murk. The terrain was against them, but confident in their numbers, they rushed upslope, a terrifying battle cry rising from their throats.

From within the camp, a weaker voice rose in challenge as Dujek completed the throat-rending syllables of his necromantic incantation. In the darkness, a cloud of distilled corruption rose slowly from the soil around the orcish host, the decay and foulness of centuries summoned to the necromancer's grim purpose. Greenish phosphorescence flickered and pulsed in the cloud's murky depths.

Vee, braced against a boulder near the camp's edge, sent a crossbow bolt into one of the onrushing humanoids. The creature lurched backwards and fell to its knees, its battle cry silenced. It didn't fall, however, so the injury apparently wasn't mortal.

On the other side of the camp, Delsordo rose, momentarily shrouded by his woolen bedroll as he fought clear of its entanglement. Grabbing his targe, the grappler pushed Mouse behind him and drew his broadsword.

One of the orcs reached the edge of camp. With a gutteral roar, the powerfully-muscled warrior heaved a barb-covered net at Czolba, jerking the rising mercenary from his feet.

Several more of the orcs were stilled in their tracks, choking and retching in a foul miasma of deathly vapor. They miserably clawed at their helmets, trying to free their visors before they could choke on their own vomit.

Near Vee, the entangled Czolba fired his crossbow at his half-seen assailant. A spark flashed in the shadow where his shot glanced off the creature's armor. The mercenary's teeth were the only detail that was visible, locked in a grim smile as he fought to free himself from the net.

The cloud of decay had stopped some of the orcs, but a group of four escaped its power, staggering through the vapors and into the camp. They charged toward Delsordo, raising battle axes in their gauntleted fists. Before the humanoid raiders could swing, however, Kadarin appeared near them, his invisibility broken as he unleashed the power of the other ring he wore. Three of the four humanoids paused, confused by the magic coursing through their minds.

The fourth orc, a behemoth of his kind, swore viciously as his allies' charge was stilled. Turning away from Delsordo, his axe instead swung brutally down at Kadarin! He would certainly have decapitated the shrinking mage, but his own allies piled upon him, entangling him in a heap of snarling, cursing orcs.

Beyond the pulsing glow of the cloud, more figures moved in the darkness, orcs that circled around toward the camp's flank.

Letting out a laugh that bordered on absolute insanity, Dujek reached into his bag and fished out a bottle and a strip of cloth. Unstoppering it and jamming the cloth into the neck he watched the orcs attempt to escape his spell. (owed round?)

Out of the corner of his eye Dujek saw the encircling orcs, and he lit the soaked cloth and threw the flaming alcoholic concotion into them, hopefully catching one or two in the blast, or if not, lighting them up so the others would see.

{OOC: The first orc in the mini-brawl from Kad's spell to fall I'm running over to and dragging to the side/coup de grace-ing so as to disembowel him... }

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For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

In the darkness, three orcs were vaguely silhouetted before the flickering witch light of Dujek’s necromantic cloud. Vee’s crossbow hummed, and then there were two.

The forms of more orcs circled around the camp, their shapes hidden in shadow. As they approached, Kadarin’s voice uttered the clipped syllables of ancient magic. Threadlike wisps of fiber appeared around the group, rapidly growing into a massive web of clinging strands. Four of the approaching orcs were holpelessly ensnarled in the web’s clinging embrace, while two others fought desperately to cut themselves free.

Within the camp, Delsordo launched himself at the massive orc that had netted Czolba. Not anticipating the grappler’s sudden lunge, the creature was taken off balance: Delsordo’s rush slammed him brutally against the trunk of an ancient, gnarled tree. In moments, he had the creature’s arm locked behind it and was cruelly twisting the trapped limb.

Nearby, Czolba’s dagger ripped at the strands of the net entangling him. Sensing the turmoil around him, the mercenary tore with all his might, but the resilient cords refused to be parted quickly. A few moments more would be needed.

In the darkness, Kadarin wasn’t able to see Mouse approach, but he somehow felt the silent young man’s strange magical touch bolstering his abilities.

In the midst of the camp, three orcs struggled against their massive leader, twisting and biting in a confused tangle of grappling limbs and slashing blades. Befuddled by Kadarin’s enchantment, the orcs battled ineffectually, unable to finish off their formidable foe. Orcish voices shouted frustrated curses from outside the camp, unsure why their allies were fighting among themselves.

Gagging from where the fringes of Dujek’s loathsome cloud had affected them, orcs staggered into the camp, eager to claim revenge against the necromancer and his allies. Vee’s crossbow had slain one, but two yet remained. Raising their axes in a hoarse (and nauseous) battle cry, they grimly advanced toward Vee and Dujek.

Unfortunately for the marauders, Dujek’s flask of alcohol was finally ready. The first orc briefly became a living torch, dropping his weapon as the flammable liquid claimed his life. His ally, splattered and momentarily blinded by the burning fluid, stumbled over one of the camp’s many stones (OOC: Rolled a 1!) and fell before he could bring his man-catcher to bear on the necromancer.

Rodney the mule, panicked by the strange noise and turmoil, snapped the line keeping him form wandering off and fled into the darkness, braying loudly.

In the eerie light cast by the orcish brigand's burning remains, the frenzied battle continued.

Toward one flank, a pair of orcs moved closer, narrowly escaping the fate that had befallen their web-ensnared fellows. One raised his spear to cast, even as Kadarin's fingers traced the subtle gestures of enchantment. The powers of magic rose to Kadarin's call, but he wasn't fast enough: Both orc warriors threw their weapons just as he completed his spell. The world seemed to slow for Kadarin as he saw a heavy spear hurtling toward him.

Then, a dark silhouette stepped into the projectile's path! It was Czolba, rushing forward! The battle-hungry mercenary tried to bat the spear aside with his dagger, but failed. Tearing through flesh and muscle, the weapon's impact knocked the sellsword backward, bloody, but unbowed.

His sacrifice had not been in vain, however. Kadarin's enchantment done, he watched the two onrushing orcs fall in slumber, along with two others that had been caught in the web.

(OOC: Czolba was hit for 4 points damage. The other orc's cast went wild.)

The orc with the mancatcher scrambled desperately to his feet, but the butt of Vee’s crossbow slammed into his head, driving the reaver down into unconsciousness before he could raise his weapon.

Within the camp, Delsordo battled the massive half-blooded orc that had led the attack. The creature couldn’t match the grappler’s skill, but its python-like strength and agility made it more than an even match for the mercenary. Twisting from Delsordo’s arm lock, the battered foeman savagely slammed his armored elbow into Delsordo’s face, briefly stunning him.

Not far from their grim duel, three orcs struggled against their own leader. One jabbed its jagged shortsword into his side, enraging the beleagured orc.

Czolba, groaning with pain from the vicious wound in his side, staggered toward the orcs that had fallen to Kadarin’s sleep magic. A snarl of hate on his face, he viciously jammed his dagger into the neck of the one that had speared him. “How do you like THAT!” the angry mercenary growled.

At the front of the camp, two orcs stumbled from the slowly-dispersing cloud, coughing and heaving with nausea. The preoccupied warriors didn’t notice two more of their number slinking off into the night’s blackness, their night’s fighting done.

Now thats not sporting! thought Kadarin, Time to even the odds... and again began the arcane language of magic, seeking to give Delsordo the size to match his skill <ooc - Enlarge on Delsordo, should be pretty good cast at 4th level...>

The crunch of the orc's head under the heavy butt of his crossbow was satisfying, but the beast was only out, not likely dead. Things were getting to close for the crossbow, he hefting Red Hatchet's axe and gave the orcs a wicked grin. Moruz would be proud to have fought in such a battle, and Vee felt a bit of bloodlust as he raised the dwarven weapon, time for a bit of revenge for the nimzian researchers and their destroyed equipment.

(OOC - attacking with hand axe, most likely a queasy orc, or a orc threatening a MUthe jury is still out on spells at the moment, i can think of plenty that would be useful, but none yet that are fitting into character)

Dujek strained his eyes, looking over the grounds, strewn with bodies, but with few things targets. Grabbing his knife from its sheath he ran to Vee's side, so that the rogue would hopefully draw any attacks that came.

(OOC: Not enough moving bodies for me to take the time to animate something. Alas, maybe next time.)

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For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

One last orc staggered forth from the cloud of necromancy, its rusty war gear spattered with the remains of its breakfast. The warrior’s bloodshot eyes glittered with anger in the flickering light of its burning ally, but the humanoid was still overwhelmed by the revolting power of the dissipating cloud.

Nearby, Vee ducked under a clumsy thrust from one of the nauseated creature’s allies. A solid strike from his dwarven axe and the orc went down, blood spurting from its severed shoulder. Covering the rogue’s back, Dujek faced the third of those orcs that had escaped his magic.

Just then, Kadarin’s voice could be made out, beginning his enchantment of growth. Dujek’s orcish foe turned, cocking his arm back to cast his spear at the preoccupied mage, but Dujek, seeing the opening, lunged forward. The necromancer’s thin-bladed knife stabbed below the orc’s raised arm, easily punching through the creature’s greasy jupon. The porcine warrior croaked in pain as the blade sank into his lung.

Snarling in pain, his face a mask of anger, Czolba lunged forward to finish the stricken creature, but it shoved the wounded mercenary back, his dirk catching in the fabric of its filthy jupon. Shaken by the sudden onslaught of its foes, the orc stumbled backward, seeking to flee.

Kadarin’s sonorous voice echoed through the camp, growing in timbre even as his spell’s subject waxed larger. A web of magic embraced Delsordo, transforming the mute warrior into a huge juggernaut of destruction. With newfound power, Delsordo grabbed his muscular foe and writhed into a neck hold. Rapidly pinning the orc’s body against the ground, the mercenary twisted, his teeth gritted with effort. With a sickening “pop”, the snarling warrior’s vertebrae tore apart, instantly stifling the thing’s wrath. Delsordo, his chest heaving with exertion, threw his foe’s limp body aside like a child’s rag doll.

Two of the orcs that had grappled their leader slowly forced the other down while the third jabbed its bloodied blade into his side over and over. The creature howled piteously as its own blood-spattered allies sent it down to darkness.

Within the web, one of the sleeping orcs suffocated, his face falling into the tangling strands. One of the others, finally tearing loose from the web’s embrace, turned and ran.

The last of the party’s enemies, seeing what stood against them, took to their heels as Czolba hefted a fallen spear. The wrathful mercenary, his blood-lust unsated, began thrusting the weapon into sleeping and entangled orcs, butchering the helpless warriors. “Jump us while we’re sleeping, would you?” he snarled.

The three orcs that had fallen to Kadarin’s charm eyed Czolba uneasily, blood dripping from the bites and gouges it had received from its leader. One called out in the harsh common found in the foothills.

“Czolba, is that you? What are you doing here?”

(OOC: Two orcs remain alive in the web (one asleep). The rest are dead, fled, or charmed.)

Kadarin looked at the remains of the battle. Luck had been with them that time.

"Czolba - these three are under my protection - for now. Occupy yourself with seizing spoils from the dead and bring them to me."

"Vee, I would assume you want to rescue the scholars", with a wink "For they would raise quite a ransom back in the city.If so, then I am with you, but I would appreciate some time to prepare a proper plan. "

"Were there more of your race that did not come on the attack?" Kadarin addressed to one of the orcs.

<ooc>Taking an imperious tone since Kadarin expects that will 'appeal' to the orcs. Czollba, well, he deserves it </ooc>

Kadarin’s questioning soon bore ominous fruit, as the spell-enthralled orcs revealed their secrets to the wizard. The orcs’ apparent spokesman, a toothless beast named Moroth, shifted his hideously-yellowed dentures around in his mouth as he spoke.

“Th’ Thorn, he hire th’ warrior of the Blacktongue Orc t’ serve him, capture traveler’. Th’ Thorn, he wa’ one o’ War Leader Havvik’s boy. Ye' remember, don’t ye Czolba? The one wi’ th’ hump?” Spittle flew from the orc’s mouth as it spoke, so it paused to adjust its ill-fitted teeth.

He got us an’ he got eigh’ hand o’ human back in Sivenwell. He say he pet necromance’ gonna bring Havvik back round. He most way there, he say.”

The grizzled orc’s information soon made it clear: These creatures were no mere raiders; they were led by remnants of the vile Warlord Havvik’s men, brutal mercenaries that had once imposed their reign of terror over the entire region. The Thorn’s ‘pet’ necromancer, a pale, stammering Imperial named Theviss, had demanded that most of the band’s prisoners be turned over to him. Once they were dragged into Thorn’s shadowed hall, none returned.

“Ther’ good money th’ Thorn be toss away!” complained the orc.

When the orcs left to trail the party, the bandits still commanded over 40 men, with 20 or more camp followers. The bandits’ leaders had fortified themselves in the old great hall while their followers shivered beneath makeshift shelters in the old courtyard.

Eleven hostages had been dragged and cuffed into the great hall, bleeding and battered, but the band’s scholars were largely unwounded. The orcs have no idea how many remain, but they expect that one, at least, is dead. The hunchback Thorn had shown quite a bit of interest in a lovely young woman who wouldn’t reveal her name. According to the orcs, Thorn prefers his women compliant, and has the necromancer to ensure they are made that way.

Vee paced for a moment, considering his options. He had no great hatred or bias against the orcs, but he did have a certain... prejudice against anyone who had once stood under Havvik's banner. Nimz would carry the tyrant's scars for a long time, and the thought of someone trying to ressurect the warlord made him tremble with rage.

"I want Thorn's head on a plate, and his guts for hippogriff bridles." Vee said. He looked at the orcs, his compatriots and the two hired swords, Czolba and Delsordo. "We are close enough that we could probably find a city patrol in a day or so, but considered Thorn we might be too late as it is," Vee bit back the comment that he wished Moruz and Talia were still with them, or even the revenant of Aethelstan, or the Voro of the Vologotor...

"I think it is time that these bastards got to know what it is like to deal with a son of Nimz." he said, his fingers tracing the pommel of his dagger.

"No, though I want Theviss, and any papers of his. The mage I'd prefer alive, though if you can't take him like that I'm sure I can still make some use of him." Dujek grinned, but the look in his eyes was one to freeze blood. Chuckling he went to the edge of the fire to bed down.

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For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

Drawing forth the leaden token of magical transport, Vee headed to summon help, leaving the others to rest and replenish their magical abilities. The rest of the party soon drifted into dreamless sleep, their exhaustion overcoming the discomfort of the stony ground.

By the time they were ready to move on, it was long after sunrise. The weather had grown even colder as the night passed, its chill touch making old wounds ache and strained joints stiffen. Wisps of high cloud skidded across the sky, and blustery winds seemed likely.

The orcs had spent part of their night gathering dry brush and preparing a bier to cremate their fallen fellows. Toothless Moroth seized a battered necklace of boar tusks from his fallen leader; he seemed to have usurped the larger orc's position among the surviving reavers. Heaping corpses on the piled wood, the orc explained his plan. "We ca' come o' back, come bur' bodies i' few days. Oth'wise th' wind star' bur' all over!"

Curious soldiers wandered out of the nearby inn as their leader, Lance Commander Salleer talked with Vee. Sons of the city’s gentry, these were a far cry from the veteran militiamen that usually patrolled the borderlands. They had meant to begin their patrol an hour before dawn, and the soldiers themselves gulped down breakfast as servants and grooms prepared their horses for them. Their gaudily caparisoned mounts bore the scarlet and green regalia of the Hill Riders, a unit that seldom did more than escort local bigwigs about the city. The cavalry was clearly out-of-place, forced into actual “soldiers’ work”.

As the disheveled “Adventurer-upon-Return” described the bandit assault his band had encountered, Lance Commander Salleer listened gravely. All around them, cavalrymen drew closer to hear the grim tale of mercenary bandits and necromancy, orcs and hostages. The discovery that the bandits were from Havvik’s treacherous “blackshields” went through the men like an electric shock, their eyes grim in the torchlight. A few of the Nimzian fighting men even spit on the ground as they relayed the news to their comrades: Few in Nimz failed to cheer when the vile warlord had paid for his crimes at the headsmen’s block.

Salleer cleared his throat, addressing his soldiers as much as the adventurer before him. “Vee, I’m glad that your group had someone of solid Nimz stock along. Without a veteran of the militia, I’m sure that things would have gone badly.

“Mount up, Men! We’re going hunting! There are Blackshields that haven’t learned their lesson!” The commander swung himself up into the saddle, his homely mount dancing with excitement.

Quickly arranging a horse for Vee, the troop of lancers moved out quickly. Although they were skilled riders, their lack of battle experience was soon obvious to the adventurer. Even the troop’s commander seemed eager to listen to Vee’s advice, his palpable lack of confidence visibly disgusting his heavily-scarred aide, Sergeant Greydahl.

The miles passed with agonizing slowness, but eventually the winding mountain trails brought them to where the rest of the band awaited. Together, they headed to Sivenwell.

(OOC: The unit has eight inexperienced militia lancers and two veteran “double riders”, experienced soldiers paid twice the normal wage. Sergeant Greydahl is apparently a veteran fighter, whose face and neck were horribly burned in some conflict. He doesn’t talk much. Their leader, Lance Commander Salleer (His rank is equal to a lieutenant in other units), is clearly a veteran of political infighting, but not a skilled leader of men. Several grooms and servants are also attached to the unit, but they will remain behind.

This unit was raised by the Worthy Company of Artificers and Clocksmiths, a guild closely tied to the University.)

With the orcs to show them hidden paths through the rugged hill country, they were soon able to spot Sivenwell. Observing the ruins from behind cover, they were able to make out several rifts in the shattered walls where it would be possible to surreptitiously enter the fortress. Brush and eroded gullies provided hidden paths toward these potential entrances. Moroth pointed out the trails preferred by his bandit allies encamped in the courtyard, and was also able to point out where the fort's ancient keep had been worst damaged. When the structure had been slighted, one corner tower of the keep had collapsed; heaps of shattered stone filled the bottom of the ancient tower, but on the second floor, a doorway to the interior was visible. An improvised door had been crafted to fill the ancient passage.

Vee furrowed his brow in thought, behind him the Hill Rider's rode, their lance banners fluttering in the weak breeze. They were green, and they seemed ill-suited for the often bloody fighting out in the Judgelands, they were by far better suited to escorting nobles, riding in the middle of sections of crossbowmen. He let his hand rest on the butt of his Nimzian made crossbow. It and his accent had probably done alot to earn the men's trust. That and Vee was just one of those trustable guys.

He let his mount fall back to where Sergeant Greydahl was riding, "I'd rather not bring back Hill-Riders laid across their saddles, and it seems like you have had some experience," Vee said to the scarred man. "I've fought, but not from horseback. My section was on foot, and since taking the winding path all of my encounters have been on foot. I would really appreciate any sort of council you would be willing to offer." Vee said with a note of confidence. People liked to be appreciated, their hard work and sacrifices noticed, be it a hard working tavern wench to a battle-hardened and likely underpaid soldier.